


Artist's studio

by Hotaru_Tomoe



Series: The English job [13]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Awkward Tension, Case Fic, Confused John, Drawing, First Kiss, First Time, Intergluteal Sex, M/M, Model Sherlock, Undercover
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-23
Updated: 2017-04-23
Packaged: 2018-10-23 02:23:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10710210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hotaru_Tomoe/pseuds/Hotaru_Tomoe
Summary: A serial killer has targeted people participating in a drawing class, so John and Sherlock go undercover to find him. John pretends to be a drawing student and Sherlock the nude model to draw. Just business stuff as usual, right? Well, not for John.





	Artist's studio

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [this lovely post](https://lillabaloo.tumblr.com/post/139787551951/silentauroriamthereal-ladymacphisto).

John folds his arms across his chest, while Sherlock is leaning over the corpse of a man with his skull smashed, lying on the living room floor, in a narrow space between a dresser and the couch. Around them the men of the forensics team are taking pictures, searching for footprints, and looking worryingly at the consulting detective whenever he gets too close to the victim.  
"You can’t touch him," one of the men warns, but before Sherlock could open his mouth and insult him, John diplomatically raises a hand in his direction and calms him down.  
"He knows very well, he will not touch anything."  
The man moves away, not yet entirely sure: he’s new on the team, has to learn to work with Sherlock. Unless he asks to be assigned elsewhere due to a nervous breakdown.  
Meanwhile, the consulting detective gets up, looking around.  
"Any ideas?" John asks.  
"Four so far," Sherlock mumbles in response, then moves to the bedroom and carefully examines the cabinet drawers.  
"Six" he finally sighs, annoyed.  
John raises an eyebrow: that’s strange, usually Sherlock tends to narrow down hypotheses as he goes on, not to add new ones.  
"Here there’s nothing useful. Let’s see if Lestrade has heard something from the neighbours."  
John is about to leave the room, but he has to move and let in two policemen, as the hall is occupied by a large wardrobe and two people can’t walk together.  
"This flat is cramped, it makes you claustrophobic" John mutters once he’s on the landing.  
"The victim moved here after breaking up with his girlfriend, who has cheated on him, and took with him the furnishings he had bought: they obviously belong to a much larger flat than this. The ex-girlfriend is one of my six hypotheses, by the way."  
Lestrade, who is writing his notes on a pad, looks up at him.  
"How the hell do you know the girlfriend cheated on him?"  
"Had it been otherwise, he would have left the furnishings to her as a form of compensation, rather than bringing them here” Sherlock explains, “Something useful from the neighbours?"  
The inspector points his pen to the other two doors: "No, these two flats are vacant, upside there’s just the attic, and downstairs there’s an old couple, both as deaf as a post, they didn’t hear anything."  
"Right. I take the case, I'll let you know if I need you," Sherlock replies, walking down the stairs followed by John.  
"That should be my line" Greg calls after them as the two exit the building, but he’s actually very relieved that Sherlock has decided to help him: he’s already dealing with an unsolved murder from two months ago, and he’s prone to accept all the help he can get on this new case.  
  
Sherlock has been motionless on the couch for two hours, and the tea that John has put on the coffee table has been ignored, so the doctor retrieves the cup with a sigh, empties it in the sink and prepares to dine alone, because he knows that his friend will not get up early. Sherlock has said that the case is a seven, interesting and challenging then, but it appears to be also extremely frustrating: the examination of the apartment and the life of the victim, Tom Gillis, was useless, as they didn’t discover anything helpful. Apparently Gillis had no debts, had no problems with his co-workers and the breakup with his girlfriend (who has an alibi for the day of the murder) was smooth and painless.  
"Boring, boring, boring, John! How does a man have such a boring life?" Sherlock has exclaimed, as if Mr. Gillis flat life was a personal affront to him. Even John had to admit that the man lived a very monotonous life, because beyond the work he didn’t seem to have any of hobby or interest.   
  
Two days later, John is seriously considering to force a saline drip on his flatmate: probably, lost as he’s in his Mind Palace, he wouldn’t even notice it.  
He approaches the couch, ready to force him to eat at least some fruit, when Lestrade knocks on the door and then enters without waiting for an answer.  
"So, any news?” he asks, pointing with his chin at the motionless man on the couch. “I don’t know how many messages I’ve sent to him, but he didn’t answer back."  
John shakes his head: unfortunately the case is proving very difficult and Sherlock hasn’t made any progress.  
"We haven’t discovered anything useful, too” the D.I. admits reluctantly, “I'm afraid that this case will remain unsolved. Great, one more excuse for the press to eat us alive."  
"One more?" Sherlock asks, opening his blue eyes and rotating his neck to look at Lestrade.  
"Yes, two months ago there was another murder that we haven’t been able to solve."  
"Why didn’t you tell me?"  
The cop shrugs.  
"Because it has nothing to do with this one: circumstances and modus operandi are completely different."  
"Perhaps, but I want to look at that file: I’m coming to your office to analyze the evidence."  
"Sherlock, it was about a girl pushed under a truck, it isn’t connected with a man killed in his house, besides there’s no evidence that the two victims knew each other."  
"If I don’t look at the file I'll never know, and Scotland Yard will have two unsolved murders” Sherlock says getting up from the couch “John, get ready."  
"I'm sorry, but I’ve a shift at the clinic."  
Sherlock, who is going to his bedroom to get dressed, stops and looks at him almost offended, and John tries to smooth his feathers.  
"You’ll tell me everything tonight.”  
Then, when Sherlock closes the door of the bedroom behind himself, he turns to Greg: “Make sure he eats something, okay?"  
He greets the cop and goes to work, hoping that Sherlock’s intuition would help him to get closer to the resolution of the case.  
The consulting detective doesn’t call him all day long, so either he discovered something or he’s stuck again.  
When he comes home that evening, it soon becomes clear to John that the first hypothesis is the correct one: their living room is packed with boxes of evidence and the walls are covered with photographs; Sherlock is sitting cross-legged in the middle of that chaos and is looking at a diary, next to him there’s an empty cup of coffee and, judging by his haunted eyes, it’s not the first one he had.  
"How did you convince Lestrade to give you all these boxes?"  
"Because, my dear John, we’re dealing with a serial killer: Donna Carter, the woman pushed under the truck, and Everett Green, in addition to our Tom Gillis” he says, pointing to the photographs on the walls “Not two but three unsolved murders in the last six months. I'm sure they were all killed by the same murderer, but” he runs a hand through his hair “I have yet to find out what the victims have in common. I only found out that they were singles, and this information isn’t significant at all; their lives and their jobs they were completely different too, and terribly ordinary."  
John throws the jacket on his chair and sits down next to him with his back against the coffee table.  
"Can I help you?"  
"I was looking at Carter’s personal organizer: luckily for us she was forgetful, borderline to amnesiac, and she wrote down everything. Instead this Green’s tablet: we must compare dates and appointments to see if there’s something in common."  
For the next hour they read aloud, but nothing interesting shows up. At one point John rubs his tired and watery eyes and looks away from the tablet.  
"I give up: there is nothing here."  
"Oh... OH! You are right! John, you're brilliant!" Sherlock exclaims, taking his head in his hands.  
"Um... thanks?" John mutters hesitantly: he always likes when Sherlock pays him a compliment, but in this case he can’t see any reason for it.  
"What is the thing you haven’t to write down on your agenda?" Sherlock urges, his pale eyes fixed into John’s, his large and dry hands tight around his face.  
The doctor mentally kicks himself: it’s not the right moment time to dwell on certain details, when Sherlock is asking him a question. And, damn it, why he finds so difficult to concentrate?  
"I don’t know... something you always do?" he ventured.  
"Correct!” Sherlock jumps up and turns his attention to the photographs of victims' houses on the wall, “Something like a regular event, impossible to forget, like... like what? What could these three idiots do?"  
"Hey!" John scolds him for the insult to the deads, but his cry falls on deaf ears: Sherlock is too wrapped up in the new discovery.  
"Something that they did on a regular basis” he keeps on, running his fingers over the photos “Something like... a class or a lesson! John, look if there are days without any appointments on Carter’s agenda."  
John quickly browse through pages and nods: "Yes, over the weekends."  
"No, she went to visit her parents, I saw the train tickets."  
"Ah, here: Wednesday evenings are almost always free, and also on Green’s tablet there are no appointments for that day."  
"Here we are!" Sherlock takes three photos from the wall and shows them to John. They are shots from the apartments of Gillis, Carter and Green: a corner of the living room, the hallway and the bedroom.  
"Um, what should I see?"  
"The paintings, John, it's obvious!"  
In Gillis living room there’s a large painting of the English countryside, perhaps an oil on canvas, the painting in the hallway of Carter’s flat is a small watercolor of a Greek island or something, and in Green’s bedroom there’s a still life painting, poster paint on paper.  
"I don’t understand: these paintings are all different and, although I’m not an art expert, it doesn’t seem to me they were painted by the same hand."  
"The brush strokes are different, because they have done their own painting, but the technique is the same, because these people had the same drawing teacher."  
John frowns, remembering their inspection of Gillis flat.  
"But it wasn’t found any drawing materials."  
"Have you seen the size of Gillis flat? There’s barely space for furnishings, and the same goes for the other victims: Carter was living in a tiny flat, while Green had a room for rent and lived with other people: hard to set up a corner for painting, not to mention that the smell of turpentine and oil paints would have impregnated everything, and his flatmates could complain. I think they left all the drawing material where they took the lessons for this reason, or maybe because they didn’t feel confident enough to paint at home alone without the support of a teacher, or they had no time to paint during the rest of the week."  
The doctor nods: it makes sense.  
"Yes, I think you’re right."  
"Of course I'm right. Now we just have to find where there’s a painting class in London on Wednesday night."  
"Yeah, sure, a piece of cake" John exclaims sarcastically, lying on the couch with the laptop resting on my stomach. London is home to hundreds, perhaps thousands of courses, classes, lessons and lectures of any kind: medieval sword lessons, Gregorian chant, Vietnamese cooking, sewing, dancing, everything. John's eyes close while he’s striking out from the list kitesurfing lessons (Seriously? In London?) and open again the next morning. He snorts, annoyed by the slight stiff neck from having slept on the couch, and rubs his face, when a cup of hot coffee is put under his nose.  
"Hello John" Sherlock greets him cheerful, and the doctor gives him a surprised look.  
"What? Aren’t you mad because I fell asleep in the middle of a case?"  
Usually the consulting detective is annoyed when John succumbs to the inevitable demands of his transport.  
"Not at all, I hope you have a good rest."  
"Um…” the doctor mutters, taking a sip of coffee “Where's the catch?"  
"I’m deeply offended" Sherlock jokes, smiling.  
"And what did you do while I was sleeping, did you solve the case?"  
"Not yet. But I've signed you up to the drawing class attended by our victims, starting from tonight."  
"You did what?” John protests, choking on the hot drink. “Sherlock, I can’t paint nor draw!"  
Sherlock looks at him as John has just told a colossal nonsense.  
"It's just a class for amateurs, no one expects you to reproduce the Mona Lisa, and you draw just fine."  
"How can you tell?"  
"I saw the old anatomical sketches on your notes from the University."  
This means that Sherlock has rummaged in the boxes John keeps in the closet in his bedroom, and now he should complain for the violation of his privacy. Instead, Gods knows why, he scratches at his stubbles and mutters shyly: "Those sketches are almost twenty years old..."  
Sherlock's eyes widen again.  
"You really think you can’t draw. It's ridiculous."  
"Thanks” John mutters again as he gets up and goes to the kitchen to place the cup in the sink. Why the hell he is so upset for the compliment Sherlock has paid to him?  
“So what should I do, am I some sort of bait for the killer?"  
The idea, which would terrify any normal person, almost excites him: they haven’t had a serial killer in a long time. And they aren’t normal, John remembers.  
He looks up from the sink and isn’t surprised to read the same thought in the eyes of his friend.  
"Yes, and while you're there, you can chat with the other students and find some clues," Sherlock continues.  
"Will you not be there?"  
"Yes, but in a different guise."  
"And what is it?" John asks.  
Sherlock smiles: "Wait and see."  
The former soldier shakes his head and chuckles: he know that Sherlock will not say another word, as he never gives up on a touch of theatricality during his investigations.  
"So, do you suspect one of the participants?"  
"I can’t theorize anything without knowing the facts, right now anyone who orbits around this class is a suspect, and maybe even those who doesn’t attend it. For example it might be someone who has retired, annoyed because the class wasn’t producing the desired results, or also the drawing teacher."  
"A lot of people, then."  
"Yes, it could be a long investigation."  
"Anything else I should know about the class?"  
"The drawing teacher is Raymond Simon, a retired professor of the Royal Academy of Arts, the class is taken in a multipurpose center, each participant can choose the technique they like, you rent the material there and pay at the end of each lesson. This allows the maximum freedom to the participants, because, if for some reason one is forced to miss a class or get tired, they don’t waste any money."  
"It's a clever idea."  
"Unfortunately it’s also the reason why so far no one has linked the murders: the other participants have probably thought that the victims just retired."  
John briefly laughs and shakes his head: "No, they didn’t notice because they're not Sherlock Holmes."  
Sherlock turns to hide a smile, then gives John one last recommendation: "I want you to have always your gun with you. All of the murders were committed in different places, this killer havn’t a unique modus operandi, and I don’t want you to be in danger."  
"That goes for you, too" John replied in a sharp voice, crossing his arms over his chest: he won’t allow Sherlock to be reckless just because he thinks to be more clever than the killer.  
"Don’t worry: as I told you I'll be there too, but I think that my role will save me from being a potential victim.”  
"Now I'm really curious."  
But Sherlock keeps his lips sealed.  
  
That evening John shows up at the multipurpose center where the class is taken: the janitor, a man in his sixties, checks his registration and makes a copy of his ID card, then directs him to the first floor. While John is climbing the stairs, the door of the gym on the ground floor opens and some soccer players pour into the hall: so in that center there’re more classes simultaneously. He sighs: Sherlock will not be happy about it, because this widens further the list of suspects.  
John enters a quite large room, but the consulting detective is nowhere to see; some people are sitting down at the desk, preparing the colours on the palette, a few people are writing on their cell phones, others are talking with the teacher, a frail-looking little man in his seventies, and John immediately removes him from the list of suspects, given the violence of crimes. When the professor is alone again, putting some objects and a fruit basket on the desk for those who want to paint a still life, John goes to him.  
"Professor Simon, good evening."  
"My, my, son, I’m no longer a professor, call me Ray" the man says holding out his hand.  
"I'm John."  
"You’re new, right?"  
"Yes."  
"And, tell me, is it your first time or have you already some experience?"  
"I drew a little at the university, but I'm very rusty."  
"Don’t worry. Remembering how to do it will be easier than you think. Have you a technique you like?"  
"I was thinking to start with pencil or charcoal."  
"Perfect, I'll get the material, go and choose where to sit."  
The professor pulls a key from the pocket of his trousers and opens the door of a small closet where the drawing materials are stored. John looks at the small desks, arranged in a semicircle around a wooden platform, and chooses the outer one, as it gives him the chance to keep an eye around the room without attracting attention.  
A man in his forties takes place next to him, and puts an unfinished still life oil painting on the easel, so John takes the opportunity to have a chat to break the ice, but he doesn’t get a lot of information: the man has been attending the class for about three months but he’s not here every Wednesday, he barely knows the other people and they’ve never gone to the pub together for a pint.   
Nothing useful, then.  
The teacher looks at the clock and claps his hands once, to draw the attention.  
"I think that nobody else will come tonight, we can start."  
John looks around and tenses slightly: Sherlock has said that he would be there too, but where? He seeks him among the people who are sitting at their desks, hoping to recognize him under one of his bizarre disguises, but he’s not there. John hopes he’s not already got into troubles, and put the cell phone on the desk: if Sherlock doesn’t come in within ten minutes, he will invent an excuse and go looking for him.  
"Many of you have finished their work last time, then we can start something new,” professor Simon says “While the others can continue and end what they are doing. What I choose for you may seem difficult, but I will guide you step by step, helping you in the most difficult passages: you will paint a nude model."  
A low murmur runs through the classroom as the teacher goes to call the model; someone smiles to mask the embarrassment, but John has a very clear idea about the identity of the model and covers his eyes with one hand.  
Indeed it’s Sherlock the man who enters the room wrapped in a white bathrobe.  
He drops the garment to the floor without any hesitation and steps on the wooden platform, assuming the pose required by the teacher: one hip slightly higher than the other, arms bent with hands clasped behind his head.  
The teacher moves around Sherlock several times, explaining where to start drawing and how to take the proportions of torso and legs, but John doesn’t hear anything of the it: the hand that’s holding the charcoal slips away from the paper sheet, leaving behind a flat line, similar to his current EEG.  
How... how the hell did Sherlock come up with such an idea? Undressing in front of a group of strangers, among whom could be a serial killer! God, the man has no shame!  
From his position John can’t help but look at Sherlock’s back and buttocks each time he lifts his eyes from the paper. And after the initial shock that has left him dazed and openly staring at the naked body, the doctor looks away: he can’t do it! He can’t observe anything, he can’t concentrate on the other participants, Sherlock is too distracting.  
The the man sitting next to him sighs: "Ah, too bad I’ve to  finish my painting, I’d like so much to work on the new project."   
He gives John a smile and a wink, reciprocated by a terrifying stretched grin, while a wave of protectiveness takes hold of John: he doesn’t like at all the lascivious glances directed at his flatmate, so he discards his original idea to draw a still life just not to have to look at Sherlock’s naked body.  
The former soldier turns around again to looks at the other classmates and checks if between the eyes resting on the detective, there’re a few with murderous intent, but at the moment he doesn’t notice anything suspicious.  
Although John can’t see his face, Sherlock seems perfectly at ease, he’s like a statue under the lights that enhance the paleness of his skin. Well, perhaps if he will think of him as a statue and not as his flatmate (naked and too close to him), it would be less awkward, and he would be able to doodle something on paper: if he will end up blowing their cover, Sherlock would be extremely annoyed.  
But after an hour the only thing that John has managed to draw is Sherlock’s head, in the form of a clot of dark hair, because, each time his gaze ventures further down, following the perfect line of his spine to his buttocks and the two alluring dimples there, a wave of inexplicable embarrassment washes over him, despite having already seen his flatmate variously disrobed. However it has always been accidental (Sherlock coming out of the bathroom after showering with just a towel around his waist, John going into his bedroom while Sherlock was getting dressed to tell there was client waiting for him in the living), it has never been intentional, cheeky and, above all, full.  
If they weren’t in a classroom full of strangers, John would say that the vision of Sherlock nakedness makes him experimenting a strange feeling of intimacy, and the thought makes him blush like a schoolboy. He turns back to his desk, hoping no one noticed it, and put the tip of charcoal on the paper, moving it in circles, creating more clumsy doodles.  
So, at the end of the class, while Sherlock puts on his robe and leaves the room without a word, John breaths a sigh of relief, roll the paper sheet (even if he’s tempted to throw it away, the miserable scrawl), stops it with a rubber band and gives it to Professor Simon, who put it in the closet along with other paintings and drawings.  
John greets with a nod some people and the janitor, who comes in to clean the room, and leaves the building.  
Sherlock is at his side shortly after.  
"Well?" John asks, after making sure that none of the participants of the class is nearby.  
Sherlock’s frustrated sigh is more eloquent than words.  
"Not even an idea?"  
"You saw it: those people barely speak to each other, it’s clear that they aren’t friends or go out together, so I can’t see what they’ve in common, can’t grasp the motive of the murders, for now. What about you, did you see something interesting from where you are?"  
The memory of Sherlock’s long legs and bare buttocks suddenly erupts in John's mind, and the doctor almost chokes on saliva. He shakes his head and shrugs, praying that the darkness of night would hide his blush.  
"Anyway, what the hell were you thinking when you decided to be a nude model?” John asks, waving his arms, once he has found his voice again. “Is it not…? Well…”  
“What?”  
“I mean... it's embarrassing!" John shouts.  
Sherlock gives him a confused look, as if he has never thought about it, until then.  
"Why should I been embarrassed?"  
"Oh, I don’t know!” John raises his arms in the air in exasperation, “Maybe because you stand naked in front of some strangers?"  
"Nonsense, I’m just a model to be painted, such as the fruit on the table."  
 _“Well, the peaches in the tray remember of Sherlock’s buttocks curve…”_  
John closes his eyes, cursing himself for that thought.  
"It’s not quite the same” he mumbles “You're not an inanimate object."  
"Are you embarrassed when a patient undresses in front of you?"  
"No, of course not, but this is different!"  
"Why?"  
"Because it is!"  
"Enlightening explanation" Sherlock murmurs sarcastically.  
"Never mind," John replies with a sigh, rubbing his face, both because talking to Sherlock is tantamount to arguing with a wall when it comes to decency, and because he can’t say exactly why the nudity of his friend affects him so much. After all Sherlock is right: John shouldn’t be embarrassed, there isn’t something awkward in what Sherlock is doing, many people pose as nude models for art students.  
Yet the discomfort he feels is real and John finds himself hoping for a bright intuition that allows Sherlock to solve the case within the week, so there’ll not be another drawing class to attend.  
  
The next morning (dawn, to be precise) John is woken up by the sound of Sherlock’s violin; usually he would be annoyed at being awakened so soon, but the violin means that Sherlock is focused on solving the case, and that’s good.  
John goes down the stairs and into a kitchen, glancing briefly toward the living room, where Sherlock is playing, facing the window, and the brief look turns into a full minute contemplation, during which his mind remembers Sherlock slender naked body under the lights of the classroom.  
John shakes his head, annoyed by his own mind, and turns to the refrigerator, so he can’t see the serious look of his flatmates, who’s watching him through the reflex on the glass of the window. The melody has a very brief indecision, but John’s ear is not sufficiently trained to catch it.  
And the case is not resolved quickly as John wanted, of course: never anything of what he hopes becomes true; during the week Sherlock is even distracted from the case by a visit of his brother, who has one of his usual national security issues to be solved. If it wasn’t a ridiculous thought, John would be inclined to think that the whole United Kingdom is plotting to make him see his flatmate naked again.  
  
And so, the next Wednesday evening, John finds himself sitting at his desk in the drawing classroom, staring stubbornly at the bush of hair that he has drawn, so very far from Sherlock soft curls, while Sherlock steps on the platform and gets rid of the robe.  
"Oh, great” the professor says “Usually I have to remind models their pose and correct them, but yours is perfect."  
Well, there’s no better word to describe Sherlock slender body: the man is motionless under the eyes of painters, his back is straight, the muscles of legs and arms tensed, illuminated by bright lights that exalt dips and curves. For a true painter Sherlock must be a great model to paint, but for John he’s only a source of embarrassment just like the week before, and his eyes wander hopelessly on the naked figure, searching for something to look at that isn’t inconvenient and doesn’t cause a strange tingling running throughout his body.  
Initially John keeps his eyes on Sherlock’s spine, dazed for several minutes as he imagines to trace the line with his fingers, like it was a path leading south, then he rouses from those thoughts, ashamed of himself, and tries to concentrate and draw something, focusing on Sherlock’s hands intertwined to the base of the neck. Finally he holds the charcoal to reproduce them, but he realizes quickly that he has chosen an extremely difficult body part to draw: once the hands are too big compared to the head, then the fingers are stubby and short, the next ones look like claws, and rubber shavings are piling up along with his frustration at John’s feet.   
Why the hell he feels like that?  
In the end the paper sheet is so ruined he has to take a new one and start over again.  
"Can I give you some advice, John?" Toward the end of the lesson, the professor, who has been busy with the other students all the time, approaches him.  
"Willingly."  
"You focus too much on the details and you don’t pay enough attention to the overview. First you should make a sketch of the full-length body and only then you can focus on hair and hands, otherwise you’ll always have problems with the proportions. Look at his body and start with that, you’ll see that it’s easier."  
John's gaze lingers for a moment on Sherlock, who is lowering his arms, but then his flatmate bends to pick up the robe from the floor, presenting him his round buttocks, and John looks back headlong at the teacher.  
The overview... easy to say!  
"I will follow your advice" John says with a polite smile, then nods and thanks him, but in his heart hopes that Sherlock at this point has already solved the case. He puts away the drawing materials and chats a bit with the other people, without finding anything relevant for the case. The janitor enters the room with a sigh at the sight of the dirt that he will have to clean, and John leaves quickly, to let him work in peace.  
The former soldier awaits for his friend in the same place the previous week, looking around, but Sherlock prefers to surprise from behind, making him start.  
"Would you mind not to provoke me a heart attack?"  
"I almost always do that, why are you nervous?"  
"Oh, I don’t know, maybe because we're dealing with a serial killer?"  
Sherlock doesn’t seem t believe his answer, but says nothing and walks along the road.  
"Any idea so far?"  
"Not yet."  
"What?” John exclaims “But we've been working on this case for two weeks."  
"I didn’t know I had a time limit."  
"Of course not. It's just that I thought that you had a clear idea, by now."  
"No, at the moment none of the painters corresponds to the profile of the killer, and their empty talks didn’t reveal anything interesting. We have to continue the investigation."  
 _"Great"_ John thinks with irritation, and something about his current state of mind has leaked on the outside, because Sherlock tilts his head and looks at him with interest.  
"Do you have problems with it?"  
"Absolutely not!" the the doctor exclaims, but realizes that he’s stupidly on the defensive.  
"And how's my portrait?"  
John shrugs.  
"Not good, but I told you that I couldn’t draw."  
"No, it’s not true" Sherlock says in a clipped voice, before picking up the pace and leaving behind a very puzzled John.  
"Why do you care so much? It’s just a cover, it’s not that my drawing will end up in an Art gallery."  
The answer seems to further annoy the detective, who doesn’t utter a word to the rest of the evening.  
  
In the following days the atmosphere at home is tense: sometimes Sherlock looks at John with an irritated face, as if he’s expecting something from him, and after a while, John gets irritated too: he’s already confused enough on his own, without having to guess what’s going on in Sherlock’s mind.  
He must find a solution for the next drawing lesson, anyway: he certainly can’t spend another hour staring into space and doodling Sherlock’s hair.  
One day, at the clinic, he finds an old atlas of the human and it provides to be a good help: basically he only has to reproduce the human musculature. Once he was quite good at it, so, during a coffee break, he takes a sheet of paper and draws a sketch with the pen using the atlas as a reference: the result is not bad (and definitely better than anything he has achieved so far), then in the following days he keeps on drawing with the atlas in front him, memorizing everything, until he’s satisfied with the result.  
On Wednesday he has to take the shift of a colleague, and he’s afraid of being late for the drawing class; however, when he gets to the center, many art students are still gathered near the vending machines on the ground floor.  
A woman with chestnut hair, who is sitting not far from him during the lesson, informs John that the professor is late.  
"Does it happens often?" John asks, becoming more vigilant. He worries about the old man: what if the killer is targeting him?  
"Sometimes” the woman says. “Even though he’s not a professor anymore, he’s still enthusiast about drawing and painting, and he still organizes small exhibitions of his personal works. In some day there’ll be the inauguration of his new one."  
"I hear that he put on display also some paintings of his students. Do you know if it’s true?" another girl asks.  
"Well, not always, but sometimes yes. Obviously the paintings must be very good, but if I'm not mistaken, a couple of years ago a man who attended his lessons did an exhibition with the professor and later he became a pretty known artist."  
"Wow, that’s so cool!” says the other woman. “It will never happen to me, with the pitiful things that I paint, but it's nice to dream."  
Meanwhile the janitor of the building comes near them mopping the floor and the group moves upstairs, waiting for Professor Simon and the model.  
John takes the opportunity to send a message to Sherlock and informs him about what he has just discovered: after all the killer could really be a jealous student.   
John could go looking for Sherlock and tell him in person (certainly Sherlock undresses in a classroom nearby), but he doesn’t like the idea of walking on him while he’s stripping. It would be awkward for him, and the atmosphere between them is already tense enough without searching for other sources of embarrassing situations.  
At least this time John is doing well during the class, having practiced during the week with the atlas: he draws from memory almost fluently, without looking at Sherlock, and when the professor walks past him, has no observation to make; so at the end of the lesson, John claims to have done a good job.   
He lifts the sheet from the desk and shows it to the brunette with whom he was talking before.  
"How is it?" he asks, expecting a compliment: after all, it’s a big step forward compared to the absolute nothingness of the previous Wednesday.  
Instead the woman gives him a weak and formal smile and it seems that she doesn’t like his drawing.  
"Oh... it’s realistic and proportionate, that’s for sure" she stammers, putting a strand of hair behind her ear.  
"But?" John presses, feeling that he’s going to get a criticism.  
"I'm not a teacher” she shrugs, “My opinion doesn’t count."  
"I’ll not take offense,” John reassures her, laughing, “I'd just like to know what you think about my drawing."  
"Well... it doesn’t look like our model, and it seems a bit cold, almost clinical."  
"Clinical?"  
"Yes, do you know when a doctor describes you some scientific stuff? Well, it gives me the same impression. But technically it's a good drawing” she adds quickly, “Surely better than mine."  
She shows him an oil painting that’s not finished yet: the woman has chosen not to paint Sherlock full length body, but just his face and torso. And maybe she's right, because the proportions of the figure aren’t perfect, as shoulders and torso are too small compared to the head, but she has managed to capture perfectly Sherlock’s acute and concentrated facial expression, and she has surrounded the portrait with a background of cold and bright colours, that really reminds him of Sherlock.   
It’s not only a beautiful painting, it’s a honest portrait of him, it’s true, because she catched on the canvas the real essence of Sherlock.  
In comparison, the figure drawn by John is really dull and grey: yes, it might be fine as an illustration on a scientific textbook, but it’s not a piece of art and, what is worse, it is has nothing of Sherlock in it.  
It’s empty and false.  
The detective picks up the robe and leaves the room, casting a quick glance at his drawing, and John suddenly feels like he has hurt him in a bad way in those weeks; he is Sherlock’s best friend, not a stranger like the other participants, and still he stubbornly refused to look at him (and perhaps to look inside himself), inventing absurd excuses.  
The embarrassment that he has foolishly felt until then vanishes and gives way to a deep shame.  
Professor Simon approaches him, asking to roll up his sheet and put it in the closet along with the others, but John, without even having to think too much about it, takes the paper and rips it in half.  
"I can do better that this."  
Sherlock deserves a sincere portrait from him, John owns him that.  
"Yes, I think so," the professor says with a smile.  
John is waiting for Sherlock at the usual place.  
“Did you read my message?” he asks, when Sherlock shows up.  
“Yes.”  
“And?”  
Sherlock raises a hand, stops a cab and climbs into it.  
"Yes, the clue that you discovered may be useful, problem is, none of the drawings painted by our victims was beautiful enough to be chosen by Professor Simon for an art exhibition. This means that the killer is someone devoid of critical and artistic sense and highly paranoid, if he feels threatened or offended by those horrible doodles, and unfortunately once again none of the participants corresponds to this profile.” Then Sherlock's voice becomes sudden colder “So I'm afraid you'll have to sacrifice yourself and attend yet another class."  
"No, it's not a sacrifice" John protests.  
Sherlock tightens his lips and turns to the window.  
"Judging by what you’re drawing, I wouldn’t think so," he says softly.  
John lowers his eyes, then, when the cab is almost at Baker Street, turns again toward him.  
"I know it was ugly, so I threw it away: I’ll start again from scratch."  
His response surprises the detective who whirls toward him.  
"I thought you said it was just a cover, that you didn’t care."  
"I changed my mind."  
"Why?"  
"Because yes," John replies, echoing the conversation from a couple of weeks before. He tries, but he can’t say more, he’s still unable to give voice to what prompted him to do again Sherlock’s drawing. It’s complicated, damn it, and he’s confused.  
"Always very enlightening, John" Sherlock sighs, then leans toward the driver to pay him, and exits the cab without waiting for John.  
"Give me a break, I'm trying to figure it out, okay?" John says, following him  
Sherlock, who is already at the top of the stairs, looks at him over his shoulder.  
"To figure out what?"  
"I don’t... I don’t know” the doctor says, licking his lips. “Listen, I... I need a shower."  
The he goes into the bathroom, undresses and throws himself under the hot spray of water, more confused than ever.  
Yeah, why he has said those words? What is he trying to figure out exactly?  
He rubs his face and curses silently: perhaps what lies under his discomfort in looking at Sherlock’s naked body, that’s driving his thoughts on a decidedly unexplored ground.  
A sexual ground.  
John has never associated the adjective ‘attractive’ to Sherlock, not until he has been forced to suddenly look at his nakedness, without warning, without a way to be mentally prepared: Sherlock’s nakedness has moved irretrievably something inside him and now, every time John looks at him, can’t help but think he’s attractive.  
 _"And not ‘attractive’ in the ‘I objectively recognize that he’s a handsome man' sense, but in the 'if we were alone in a room I wouldn’t just draw him' sense, in the 'how the hell did I get into this mess?' sense”_ John thinks, bowing his head under the water _“And, more importantly, how do I get out?"_  
Lost in thought, he barely hears the bathroom door that opens and closes, but then Sherlock leans on the sink and clears his throat.  
"Do you need something? Can’t it wait until I finish to shower?"  
It’s not unusual for Sherlock to break in the bathroom or in John’s bedroom because he absolutely must tell him something, but the long silence following John’s question is certainly unusual. Through the thick plastic curtain, John has no way to see his face, but somehow Sherlock’s hesitation comes up to him.  
“Sherlock, is everything okay?”  
"Can I see you naked?"  
Despite the sound of running water, Sherlock's question comes to him loud and clear, and seems to remain suspended in the dense steam around him.  
"Why?" he gasps, to take time and to allow his brain to process what he has just heard.  
"You see me naked every week during the drawing lessons, so it would be fair, don’t you think?"  
"Fair..." the former soldier echoes.  
"Mh."  
Fair.  
The excuse is so laughable that one wonders why he bothered to invent it, but meanwhile John lingers thinking of an answer, Sherlock precedes it.  
"Never mind," he says slowly and starts to leave the bathroom.  
Sherlock deserves not only a honest portrait from him, he deserves that John is more honest with him. While he was lost in his endless ruminations, Sherlock has tried to do something to break the impasse in which they find themselves since the beginning of the case.  
John hears his footsteps moving away towards the door and he knows that Sherlock will never try again to take a step to reach for him, if now John doesn’t do something.  
They will not have another chance.  
It’s that thought that gives John the push he needs.  
His left hand grasps and pulls the green curtain, Sherlock widens his eyes in surprise and John stays there, motionless. During those first few moments they can’t speak or move, there is only the deafening sound of water hitting the ceramic plate and the tiny droplets that are wetting the floor.  
The former soldier spreads his arms slightly, as if to say _‘here I am, now what?’_ and then Sherlock moves toward him without hesitation anymore, his face is calm, devoid of uncertainty, and his small smile hides the relief of someone who had feared to have ruined everything with his move, and now discovers that it’s not like that.  
John slowly shakes his head to reassure him: no, it isn’t Sherlock the one who risked to ruin their relationship, that was him and his damned indecision. He closes his eyes and takes a step back to make room for him in the shower, and a second later he hears Sherlock’s pajamas fall to the ground.  
John isn’t even excited right now, too tense for this sudden turn of events, at least until Sherlock rests both of his hands on his wet shoulders and slowly strokes his arms, humming contently, going down to the wrists and up again, tracing the outline of John’s collarbones and jaw, venturing on the shoulder blades with the tip of his fingers, while the muscular arms wrap him in a tight hug. It's as if Sherlock is drawing John, using his long fingers instead of a pencil, and now that is terribly exciting, so much so that John’s erection doesn’t take long to manifest itself, pressed against Sherlock's thigh.  
John hears a tiny gasp from Sherlock and opens his eyes, cursing himself for having kept closed, because he has lost the sight of a breathless Sherlock, his full lips parted, his eyes wide open and black with desire; droplets of water are sliding down his pale skin, caressing him, and John feels stupidly envious of each of them.  
They look at each other for a brief moment, then Sherlock bows his head slowly towards John, to place a first kiss on his lips, a kiss that could be chaste and shy, but John doesn’t allow it to be. He pushes Sherlock against the wall, one leg firmly planted between his to prevent Sherlock from slipping, and pounces on him, claiming a hungry kiss that dissolves any remaining hesitation between them.  
Sherlock’s grip on his shoulders becomes tighter, his nails sink lightly into his flesh and a soft moan break the silence. John takes the opportunity to explore and learn everything about the marvelous body in front of him; he caresses Sherlock everywhere with his hands, teases his nipples and groans his approval when he feels Sherlock tremble and quiver under his ministrations. He stores the information in a corner of his brain for a next time; there will be a next time for sure, because, after seeing how explosive is chemistry between them, John will never accept just a one-night stand. Nope, now he wants the full package.  
His left hand slides down, until it meets Sherlock’s cock, trapped between their bodies, and he rubs roughly his palm on the glans, ripping out a hoarse and deep moan from the taller man.  
"J-John... I... mh… a-AH!" Sherlock has lost his mind and he is reduced to stuttering.  
"Yes," John growls and keeps on masturbating him at a relentless pace, and it’s not just a _‘yes’_ to what they’re doing right now, it’s a more profound and liberating _‘yes’_ , a _‘yes’_ that soon will talk about feelings, too. But not now. Now the desire, coupled with the frustration bottled up in weeks, is making John vibrate like a string of Sherlock’s violin. He needs release and he needs it now.  
With an abrupt gesture John turns Sherlock to the wall and lays his eyes on that long and white back, that he has so stubbornly avoided looking up during the drawing classes.  
What a waste.  
That back is made to be admired and worshipped.  
"Okay?" John asks against his skin.  
Sherlock nods frantically, "Please…"  
"In a moment," replies John, then he bends down to lick along his spine to the swell of his buttocks and back again, finally sinking his teeth between Sherlock shoulder blades.  
"John!"  
"Okay, okay."  
A knob of shower gel is all he needs to make the skin slippery enough; he put one hand on Sherlock’s hip to keep him still, then he pushes and rubs his erection between his tight buttocks, moaning wildly as Sherlock’s heavy testicles slip on his cock whenever he’s pushing forward; he reaches out to grab Sherlock’s cock and masturbate him in sync with his thrusts, so hard that he’s crushing the taller man against the wall, but it seems that Sherlock doesn't care, and he just asks for more and more and more, and the orgasm that washes over them a few minutes later it’s almost violent, but also so liberating, after three long weeks full of unresolved tension.  
John leans his forehead on Sherlock’s back, takes a few deep breaths, and only when he’s sure that Sherlock’s legs has stopped trembling and he will not slide to the flood, lets him go, stretches his arm and reaches for the faucet.  
"Better turn off the water, or the next bill will make us cry."  
They step out of the shower, dripping water on the floor; there is only one bath towel available, John’s one, but the former soldier is quite happy to wrap them both in it; he dries their damp skin and take advantage of their closeness to lay some affectionate kisses on Sherlock’s lips. Indeed, if from now on all showers in Baker Street will be like this, he will be more than happy.  
Sherlock has not said a word yet, and seems still dazed while he collects his pajamas and moves into his bedroom; John leans against the doorframe, arms folded across his chest, and looks at Sherlock, who is rubbing vigorously his wet hair with the towel, fascinated by the movement of muscles of his back: now that he has thrown away his stupid embarrassment, he doesn’t see why he couldn’t spend the rest of life looking at Sherlock.  
"What… do you want to sleep here?" Sherlock asks with a hint of hesitation.  
Understandable, given the contradictory messages that John has launched to him in recent weeks, so now it's up to him to get the record straight; with a sharp movement he tears away from the doorframe goes near the bed to meet him.  
"Sleeping? Maybe in a while: now I have something else in mind."  
"Oh? And what is it?" Sherlock's eyes sparkle with mischief and his posture relaxes immediately.  
"I’d rather give you a practical demonstration."  
John lands him on the bed and crawls over him, then takes his wrists, brings his arms above his curly head, and kisses him again and again: he doesn’t have the strength for a second round, but has no plans to stop kissing Sherlock anytime soon, just to breathe from time and then, if it’s really necessary.  
When Sherlock moves away asking for oxygen, John pulls back, leaning on one elbow, watch Sherlock’s pose on the bed, with his arms still raised over the head, and laughs softly.  
"You know, considering this investigation and everything else, this would be the right time for you to say it."  
Sherlock frowns, confused.  
"Say what?"  
"Draw me like one of your French girls."  
"Had you a French girlfriend?"  
John bowed his head on Sherlock's shoulder and burst into an uncontrollable laughter.  
"It was just a line from a movie, a pretty famous one, actually, but I'm not surprised you don’t know him."  
"Irrelevant” Sherlock mutters, bringing his arm around John shoulders “But if you want I can speak French, next time."  
"Oh yes," John sighs and kisses him again, filing the information in the growing list of sexual fantasies about his consulting detective.  
  
The bright morning sunrays filter through the curtains and lights up the room, but Sherlock is still fast asleep; he’s lying on his stomach, with his arms stretched under the pillow, the sheet tangled between his endless legs baring his round buttocks.  
John lays a feather kiss on the red imprint of his own teeth that he left on Sherlock’s left shoulder the previous night, and wonders what the other participants at the drawing class will think, when they’ll see the mark next Wednesday. The doctor hopes that the imprint will not disappear too quickly, but if so, he will replace it with a nice hickey, maybe on his long neck, to which the night before he didn’t devote the proper attention.  
John shakes his head, laughing softly to himself, because if just yesterday someone had told him where he would be that morning and what would be his thoughts, he would laugh.  
He looks back at Sherlock’s perfect body and, on a whim, he decides that he doesn’t want to wait another week to draw him. He has already waited too long, he wants to do it now and want to do it right.  
He gets up, gets dressed, leaves a message for Sherlock on the pillow, and then went to the center: on Thursday morning it’s open for the practice of a local basketball team. The janitor is nowhere to be found, so John gets upstairs to the drawing classroom: probably what he’s doing is against the rules, but it’s anything illegal, he just wants to draw for a while, as his mind is finally free of stupid worries.  
It’s a piece of cake for John to pick the simple lock of the closet with his credit card; he takes  a new sheet of paper, charcoal, eraser, sits at his usual desk and start to draw. Now that he has come to terms with his sexuality and his feelings, it’s surprisingly easy to call to mind the image of Sherlock standing on the platform under the spotlights, he even remembers the rights lights and shadows and the shape of his muscles. Following the advice of Professor Simon, he draws a first sketch of Sherlock body and then moves slowly to finish the different areas, occasionally lifting the sheet and looking intently at it to spot errors and inaccuracies, that he corrects with the eraser. He goes on, drawing with charcoal the lovely features that he has caressed with his hands the night before, and after an hour of work, John has to admit that his portrait is quite good, it’s realistic and powerful and, finally, it seems like Sherlock.  
"Not bad," he says to himself.  
"Too much" replied the voice of a stranger behind him.  
Years of instinct and remembering that there’s a serial killer on the loose make John react at lightning speed:he bends to the left, avoiding a fire extinguisher aimed to his skull, but the heavy tool hits him on the shoulder with enough strength to make him cry out in pain. He falls down and rolls on his back, finding himself face to face with the janitor of the building, but he has not the time to be surprised (he would have never guessed he was the killer), because the man attacks him again. John kicks the chair towards him, making him stumble. The fire extinguisher falls from his hands and John pounces on him, slamming them both on the desk, which disintegrates under their weight; they roll on the ground, hitting each other blindly with kicks and punches. The janitor gets to put his hands around John's neck, but can’t do anything else, because someone grabs him from behind by the shoulders and throws him away.  
It’s Sherlock, who hasn’t any scruples to smash the man on the head with the butt of John’s gun and finally the man falls to the ground, unconscious.  
"What did I tell you?” the detective shouts, kneeling beside John “Never get out of the house unarmed during this investigation! Do you want to get yourself killed?"  
Sherlock takes John’s face in his hands with a gentleness that contrasts with the harsh tone of his words and examines him carefully, so it doesn’t take John long to realize that Sherlock is just terribly worried about him.  
"I'm fine" he reassures him, resting his hands on his.  
"The blow on the shoulder was strong: go home and put some ice on it. I'll call Lestrade and will deal with all the paperwork."  
John hardly believes his ears: it’s the first time that Sherlock volunteers to fulfill a task that, he says, bores him to death: he has always tried to avoid it with some excuse.  
"Uh, it seems that someone is very much in love."  
Sherlock bites his lip and clears his throat before whispering: "Problems?"  
"Of course not” John grabs the collar of his shirt and pulls him into a fierce kiss.  
“But I'm sorry for that," he sighs, pointing to the floor: in the scuffle with the killer, his draw ended on the floor with them and now it’s torn to pieces.  
"You can ask me to pose for you whenever you want," Sherlock consoles him, before calling Scotland Yard.  
  
Eventually Lestrade is so happy that they’ve caught the serial killer, he doesn’t complain too much for the unorthodox method of arrest. During the interrogation at the station, the man explains his motives, but they’re so piffling that Lestrade can’t believe his ears.  
The man, years ago, wanted to become the assistant of Professor Simon at the University, but someone else got the job. From that moment on he had hatched an irrational grudge against anyone who worked with him, because, in his mind, these people had stolen a place that was rightfully his.  
So when the professor started that drawing class, he did everything to get a job as a janitor, to study his victims, who were the persons to whom the professor devoted more time and attention, as he thinks they didn’t deserve such a honor.  
Lestrade records his confession and hopes that the man will spend many years in jail, where he belongs.  
  
"I am at hom-"  
John freezes on the threshold of their flat: his brain short-circuited at the sight of Sherlock lying on the sofa.  
The man is stark naked and a sly smile stretches his lips.  
John closes the door precipitously, almost crushing a finger in the process, and babbles something, waving at him.  
"Are you crazy? What if I were a client? And Jesus, somebody could see you through the window!"  
He rushes across the room, hurriedly pulls the curtains and controls the façade of the opposite building to make sure that no one has enjoyed the show of his naked boyfriend.  
Sherlock doesn’t move, just continues to smile slyly: he discovered that John can be very jealous (he forbade him to pose naked for the drawing class again, after the conclusion of the case) and enjoys teasing that side of him.  
"That movie you were talking about” says Sherlock, drawing John’s attention, “Eventually I saw it."  
"And?"  
"So, do you still want to draw me like one of your French girls?" he asks in a mischievous voice, bringing his arms over the head.  
"Another time perhaps” John responds with a delighted smile as he removes unceremoniously his sweater and shirt. “There are many ways to appreciate art," he concludes, lying on him.


End file.
